


a periphery of reveries

by wontonwriter



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-High School, Road Trips, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24840436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wontonwriter/pseuds/wontonwriter
Summary: Junmyeon isn't sure if falling in love with your best friend is weirder than growing attached to a beat-up mustang.(or; the roads are bumpy, and they're on the precipice of adulthood. junmyeon spends it thinking, yifan languishes in silence, baekhyun is a control freak and chanyeol spouts random philosophies.)
Relationships: Byun Baekhyun/Park Chanyeol, Kim Junmyeon | Suho/Wu Yi Fan | Kris
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	1. a beat-up mustang

**Author's Note:**

> how did this happen? well, a one-shot for a fic fest turned out to be something i really wanted to expand on. oh and also because i was late for sign-ups lol

_“…and i am out with lanterns, looking for myself.”_

_— Emily Dickinson_

𐐒𐐚

Junmyeon’s mom had said that when the final bell of high school rings, everything changes. That the one continuous loop of chimes, the crux of high school closure, apparently, would open a portal in front of his school gates that would teleport him over to some swanky university, fresh-faced and ready for lectures.

Whether or not the whole saying was the truth or a mere platitude doesn’t change the fact that Junmyeon can’t hear it, that final ring, its usual toll obscured by the relentless cacophony of sentimental screaming. He doesn’t know if he should be happy or sad or a mix of both. The bulk of melancholia that permeated today’s atmosphere had been filtered away at lunch, where everything set in.

It’s more like a faint clicking if he focuses hard enough. The bell looks funny when it’s getting hit by the clapper, frantic in its pace. Maybe it doesn’t want to make a sound, too busy looking down at the new batch of high school graduates.

It stays silent when Junmyeon sifts through the crowd of his overzealous classmates, a few hugs shared and a lot of temporary farewells spoken. They come and go like debris swept from a desk, Junmyeon’s cupped hands teetering along the edges to collect what they can. He’ll miss this, even if it wasn’t the usual after-school scene he’s decided he took for granted over the past three years.

Junmyeon finds Baekhyun in some far-off corner in the hallway with his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, glasses perched atop the bridge of his nose. He’s handing out flyers to passers-by who all but give it a fleeting look, nonchalance painted on their faces when paper becomes crumpled balls in unforgiving hands.

“Excuse me! Grad info for next week—” Baekhyun says like an automated message, stopping when he sees Junmyeon’s face, smiling. “Oh, Junmyeon.”

“Baek,” Junmyeon greets, smiling back. “Aren’t you a little deserted? Where’s the rest of the council?”

“On their own as well,” Baekhyun says, “We got asked to give out these stupid handouts. You’d think this time would be more well spent on practising my speech for graduation, but you’d think wrong.”

“You’re acting like you didn’t already have it written down and memorized to the T.” Junmyeon says, sarcastic. Baekhyun snorts and playfully shoves him on the shoulder, his other hand absentmindedly flicking through the ream of paper.

“Have you seen Chanyeol?” He asks, eyes flitting between Junmyeon and the stack of leaflets.

“He wasn’t in class for last period,” Junmyeon shrugs, “Probably in the back smoking.”

Baekhyun huffs, audible in Junmyeon’s ears. His grip on the leaflets loosen, burdened by the distressing news. 

“It was his last period and he decided to ditch?” Baekhyun says, exasperated, “Does that guy have no dignity?”

“Chanyeol’s always been a truant, Baek.” Junmyeon says, hand running soothing circles on Baekhyun’s back, “It was inevitable, really. But his attendance was way better than last years, if that makes anything better.”

Junmyeon knows it doesn’t because Baekhyun runs a hand over his face, pale skin moving with the friction. 

“He’s such an ass.” Baekhyun says, a mutter under his breath. He shakes his head disapprovingly to himself, turning his heel.

“Well, let’s go.”

“What? Why should I follow?”

“Junmyeon.” Baekhyun says, condescending with a knowing glint in his eyes, “If Chanyeol’s at the back doing something expulsion-worthy, then Yifan is there too trying to talk him out of it.”

“Yifan?”

Oh, Yifan. His best friend of ten years, plus a couple weeks. Really tall and really nice, if not a little mischievous.

That doesn’t explain the glint in Baekhyun’s eyes though, doesn’t detail the condescending tone he uses which Junmyeon hates. But he follows anyway when Baekhyun beckons him to, wanting to be there for him. On the way Baekhyun dumps the leaflets in a bin, the one some sixteen metres away from the library’s entrance which no one uses.

The back of the school looked decrepit and dirty, vibrance hollowed out by years of improper use. Every step Junmyeon takes carries some sort of weird longing though, a side effect from the realization that he’ll miss this place when he goes and never comes back.

It isn’t hard to find Chanyeol and Yifan, tufts of hair poking out from behind the walled fence they’ve long outgrown.

Baekhyun is poised for a nagging session when he rounds the corner, surprise evident on his face when he doesn’t see any indication of indecent school behaviour. Just Chanyeol and Yifan, talking to each other in hushed whispers. The 61 on the back of Chanyeol’s letterman faces them when Baekhyun outpaces Junmyeon, too keen on throwing words at his boyfriend’s face.

Baekhyun clears his throat with near-dramatic emphasis, alerting the two giants. Chanyeol swivels, almost instantaneously, smile gracing his face when he meets Baekhyun’s murderous eyes, a wooden board against the tip of a sharpened knife.

“There’s my little Valedictorian!” He cheers, ambling up to him, cool with his hands shoved down his pockets.

Baekhyun pushes him away when he ducks down for a hug. Yifan pokes his head out from behind Chanyeol’s head, waving at an amused Junmyeon. He waves back, silently filling in his best friend’s side. 

“Careful, Junmyeon.” Yifan whispers, “Bloodbath ensuing.”

“Protective headgear on.” Junmyeon whispers back, pantomiming. His hair rustles when he goes to put his imaginary helmet on, brushed around by Yifan’s long fingers.

“Sorry for being MIA for most of the day,” Yifan says, “Got busy with things.”

“How’s Kyungsoo?” Junmyeon says, elbowing Yifan on the shoulder, teasing.

“We broke up.”

Junmyeon’s elbow drops. He darts his head up to look at Yifan, who gives him an awkward smile.

“What?”

“It’s—”

“I can’t believe you ditched your last class of high school.” Baekhyun’s voice, noticeably more passive than Junmyeon expected, pulls them back to the scene unveiling in front of them.

Baekhyun’s in Chanyeol’s letterman now, drowning in its thick fabric. Chanyeol has his work vest on and Baekhyun doesn’t make comments, no word of disapproval coming out of his mouth. Junmyeon knows Baekhyun knows better than to, but he still feels a little relieved.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry.” Chanyeol says, sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck, grinning like a puppy.

“You’re an idiot.” Baekhyun chides, but closes the gap between them and brings Chanyeol down for a hug. His hands come up to sift through his boyfriend’s hair, Chanyeol audibly sighing and enveloping him in his hold, returning the favour.

In silent times like these, Baekhyun and Chanyeol mould into two, malleable clay shapes coming together to form one shapeless whole. It’s as perfect as it is imperfect and makes Junmyeon cringe.

A gag from Yifan makes him snort. The two leave, a silent nod from Yifan promising something better than watching their friends make out, and his questions about Kyungsoo linger on the tip of his tongue, desperate to tumble out. He keeps his mouth shut.

𐐒𐐚

“This is…” Junmyeon’s not sure what to say.

“This is what, Junmyeon?” Yifan says, practically bouncing where he stood.

“Yifan, I don’t know what to say.”

And maybe it’s the fight with his tongue itching to ask questions, thoughts of Kyungsoo and Yifan and the now gaping chasm between them stuck in his head, that Junmyeon can’t find the energy to articulate questions. The beat-up mustang in front of him doesn’t do anything to help, stirring his confusion.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Yifan says, like a statement, bouncing up to the mustang’s front and petting its hood, gentle like the car was gilded.

“Yifan,” Junmyeon starts, careful. “What is this? Why are you petting a car that looks ancient?”

“She’s my car,” Yifan answers, “My baby. Newest love of my life.”

How Yifan can say that sounding like a child getting a dog for Christmas, excited and all jubilant, throws Junmyeon off. Did two years mean nothing to him?

Yifan takes a seat on the hood, his weight making the car tilt by a pinch. He gestures Junmyeon over, patting the spot next to him, dusts some dirt off. Junmyeon follows hesitantly, movements tentative when he sits down on the bonnet.

“My uncle chipped in a couple hundred to get this car in my hands,” Yifan explains, “She’s a steal! I’m naming her Koko.”

“Why Coco?”

“Not ‘Coco’,” Yifan rolls his eyes, “It’s Koko. With two Ks.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You have to put in more emphasis in the / _k_ / with Koko than _Coco_.”

Junmyeon gives him a look, pointed and confused.

“You’ll hear the difference when you hear it.” Yifan says, leaning back.

“And when that time comes?” Junmyeon says, looking up at Yifan.

“We’ll be in our mid-40s with _Koko_ lounging in my front yard, you visiting from your house next door to give me food and finally realizing when I open my front door to let you in that ‘ _holy shit, Koko does sound different to Coco!’._ ”

They laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly, Yifan’s neck lolling back. Distantly, Junmyeon thinks about how Yifan had envisioned him as his next-door neighbour, like Junmyeon would still be in Korea making him food every day in their 40s. Junmyeon’s head falls in on itself, some discernible sadness draining his energy.

Junmyeon’s feet dangle off of the hood while Yifan’s stay glued to the floor, his legs too lanky to hang off of anything shorter than 6’3.

‘ _Basketball does that to people_ ’, Yifan had said to Junmyeon during a phase in their first year when everyone besides him started shooting up like beanstalks, a mopey Junmyeon resentful of his short legs, having spent the whole year drinking enough milk to ‘ _run Korea’s dairy business to the ground’_ , as Baekhyun so eloquently put.

Some people like Baekhyun had their growth stunted as quickly as it started, while a lucky few enjoyed a gravity-less extension, Yifan for example.

So Yifan’s really tall, Junmyeon’s stopped caring. It’s more convenient then it is inconvenient, really, Yifan being able to reach the top shelf with ease while Junmyeon can peruse the contents of bottom drawers without looking like a complete dork.

“Hey, I don’t appreciate your feet hitting Koko’s bumper.” Yifan nudges him on the shoulder, playful.

“I’m sure Coco doesn’t mind,” Junmyeon shrugs, looking down at the car’s hood, cracked paint on its surface. “ _Don’t you girlie? Who’s a good beat up mustang? You are!_ ” He coos, scratching it the way he’d scratch the behind of a dog’s ear.

“You’re warming up to Koko quickly,” Yifan says, “And here I thought it’d take at least the whole of our trip for you to finally see her for who she truly is.”

“Well, I—” Junmyeon goes to say before stopping, Yifan beaming at him when he gives him a look, pointed and confused.

“Did you just say _trip_?”

“I think I just did.”

“Yifan.”

“What?”

“A _trip_? As in, a trip which involves sightseeing and getting out of Chuncheon?”

“Yup.” Yifan says, cut-and-dry.

Junmyeon screams and jumps off of Koko, gyrating around some force of gravity that had popped up out of nowhere, like a portal. Yifan follows and puts his hands on Junmyeon’s shoulders, a dance line of two in the middle of the carpark, the occasional student balking at them when they pass by. 

Junmyeon halts after a few full circles round Koko. He turns to face Yifan, beaming smile still on the giant’s face.

“When are we going, Yifan?” Junmyeon asks, reeling it in, “And what about everything? Gas? Driving? Who’s paying for the accommodation—"

“After graduation,” Yifan cuts him off, laughing at his panic. “We’ll split the bill, but Chanyeol and Baekhyun are coming as well so it’ll make the whole money situation easier.”

“Did they say yes or are you pulling a Baekhyun and just assuming they are?”

“What do you think?” Yifan drawls, sarcastic.

“This is so exciting!” Junmyeon says, getting the message. “I’ll ask my parents about this. They’ll probably say yes, anyway.”

Yifan nods, silently sitting back on Koko. His smile is still there but he looks down at the asphalt, his face Junmyeon can only describe as bitter and solemn. A surge of concern replaces enthusiasm, after-joy ebbing away, and Junmyeon hops back on Koko’s hood, an inkling of an idea on what got Yifan down so suddenly.

“I guess we haven’t really talked about it yet,” Junmyeon stares at their feet, watches Yifan kick around a rock. “It’s Kyungsoo, right?”

“Yeah, it’s Kyungsoo.” Yifan says it like it was obvious, like it didn’t need a question attached to it. In hindsight, Junmyeon would agree.

“Well let’s talk about it,” Junmyeon says, fiddling with his fingers. “Why’d you guys break up?”

Yifan leans back, hands braced on Koko. Junmyeon listens to its rickety insides groan, cringing.

“Did you ever think Kyungsoo and I were in love?” Yifan asks, and Junmyeon gets a little startled, nerves jolting when he processes the question.

Yifan and Kyungsoo _were_ boyfriends, for one. They treated each other like kings, from what Junmyeon had seen whenever he had to play third wheel on their dates. Yifan kissed Kyungsoo with fervour, and Kyungsoo always fed him his pastries, flaky with love imbued in his doughs. In a way they were like Chanyeol and Baekhyun, without the constant nagging and saccharine puppy love that came with Chanyeol, always needing Baekhyun by his side whenever they were together. 

They _were_ boyfriends, out of doors. Behind them, Junmyeon wouldn’t know. He’s only realizing now how little he really knew about them, if the running currents and clicking gears ran as smoothly as its exterior looked, glossy paint with a curt, little bow on top.

Yifan pulls Junmyeon out of contemplating with a stare, intruding as it was sad, knowing.

“I did think you guys were in love,” Junmyeon finally answers, careful. “You thought so too, right?”

“It wasn’t me who didn’t think so,” Yifan clarifies, not sounding relieved. “Kyungsoo did. He went off on a tangent about how nothing we did ever resembled a couple doing stuff together and how he always felt like an extra limb that embarrassed me whenever I put my arm around him.”

Yifan visibly shrinks when he says this, and Junmyeon wants to give him milk, two jugs of it. He can’t though, so he just rubs awkward circles on Yifan’s back.

“Did you ever find out why?”

Yifan looks up at the sky, eyes narrowed like grey clouds were the sun, bright and dangerous if stared at for too long. He shakes his head.

“What does it matter anyway?” Yifan says, bitter. “He’ll be in France getting his degree for pastry making. I’ll be here in Korea, doing God knows what.”

“ _Yifan_ ,” Junmyeon says, stern. “Don’t say that shit. University isn’t for everyone, that’s that.” 

“Sometimes I like Serious Junmyeon, all swear and no flack.” Yifan sits up, lips a faint curlicue on his face.

“ _Sometimes?_ ” Junmyeon says, feigning offence, “You wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for _Serious Junmyeon_.”

“And he speaks in first person!” Yifan says, and Junmyeon swells with pride seeing his best friend lighten up a little. “So tell me, how’s _Serious Junmyeon_ going with college applications?”

Junmyeon knows Yifan, knows the exaggerated elbow to his ribs warrants a change of conversation.

“Two scholarships, one full-ride.” Junmyeon announces, leaving out the part where both weren’t on his list of desired schools. Junmyeon’s aim was faulty, his actual dream school turning down his scholarship request. It’s been a bitter seed growing inside him, Junmyeon constantly snipping stems to hide it away.

“Okay _Einstein_ ,” Yifan says, proud. “Mind a drive round’ to celebrate? We can do shit like, talk about your elective choices, or re-evaluate my future.”

He says it like a joke, but Junmyeon can’t help but feel like it’s all self-deprecating.

“I think we can just eat.” Junmyeon says, burying his worry away with a truckload of nonchalance, hopping off of Koko’s hood.

Yifan has an eyebrow lofted when he turns to face him, smile on his face. Junmyeon sees it as genuine, knows from the way that his teeth are showing, no conjoint lips to hide pearly whites.

“You’re paying though.” Junmyeon says, skirting to Koko’s side before Yifan can object.

And they have so much fun driving with nothing but lanterns to guide them, gorging on cheap food in rundown eateries, that Junmyeon doesn’t feel as disappointed in himself when he throws two acceptance letters down on his family’s dining table, envelopes floating in the air like they were second-guessing, Junmyeon willing them to finally land on second-hand wood. 

His mom and dad hug him like he’s graduating 1st in class and surprise him with a feast like he hasn’t already had his stomach burst open, hordes of ramen and fried chicken still haunting his insides. He eats anyway, because he loves his mom’s cooking.

𐐒𐐚

Junmyeon watches Yifan tear plastic blags from their lining, flapping them open. All of this is done in quick succession, each movement precise like Yifan’s practised doing such a strange task in front of his mirror for hours, like he foresaw something like this happening.

But Junmyeon can’t help but applaud Yifan even if he did, since plastic bags come in handy when your friend’s floor is littered with things no parent would ever want to walk into, especially with their hands still grasping onto the last few threads of their vacation in Europe, dangling off of their palms. Empty bottles of beer would sprout limbs, yanking it out of their strong grips, leaving nothing but anger and justified pettiness in its wake.

“Stupid Chanyeol and his stupid parties.” Baekhyun slumps down on a chair, rolling an empty bottle under his foot. He watches it roll back and forth with dramatized vehemence, pointed stare crippling the bottle’s self-esteem. Junmyeon almost feels bad for it. He takes a seat next to Baekhyun, hand automatically finding its way to comfort his back, like it’s been wired to.

“Baek, I don’t think making a glass bottle feel bad for itself will do you any good in this situation.” He says, teasing.

“And so what?” Baekhyun huffs, twice for emphasis, before propping his elbows up on the table, chin dug into his palms. “It’s not like Chanyeol _needed_ a pre-graduation party. It’s not like there wasn’t already a party happening next week.”

Junmyeon opens his mouth to be speak, but Baekhyun cuts him off with another huff, a little more steam left to sputter out.

“And he doesn’t even have an excuse,” he says, “Our road trip is after graduation. He’ll have time to get drunk and get all his final ‘hurrahs’ in order before the four of us head out of this town to explore the rest of Korea.”

“You seem keen on leaving Chuncheon,” interjects Yifan.

Even in the midst of conversation, Yifan does not stop or temporarily halt his movements between words. Junmyeon can’t help but admire it, how each plastic bag balloons into life when opened, all perfectly round before slightly deflating when they make their descent to the floor.

“I’ll be sad, Yifan, but _18 years_?” Baekhyun says, rhetorical in his tone, “I think I’ll be fine not seeing all these roads and mountains for at least a year.”

“You’ll be gone for a year?” Junmyeon says, “No visits or anything?”

“Yup!” Baekhyun says, cheerful in his spring when he gets up. “Everything is set. I’ll be in Cambridge, life trajectory bound for the heavens.” He says, sing-songing it with so much conviction that Junmyeon almost believes it, like Baekhyun’s spreadsheet for his future was set in stone, faultless.

He can’t say the same for Yifan though, narrowed eyes boring into the small of Baekhyun’s back when he makes his leave, a ‘ _guess its time to look for Chanyeol_ ’ thrown over his shoulder.

Baekhyun’s exit prompts Yifan to face him, Junmyeon noticing the sudden decline of plastic bag opening. He fiddles around with the roll before dropping it onto the floor. It lands on another empty bottle and spins away when it recoils, Junmyeon listening to the sound it makes, a soft rumble against hardwood floor.

“Baekhyun’s been acting funny, hasn’t he?” Yifan says after taking Baekhyun’s vacated seat.

“He’s definitely been more forward with the way he presents his plans, if that’s what you’re talking about.” Junmyeon says.

“Exactly,” Yifan nods, pursing his lips, “We’re not that dumb, right?” He says tentatively, after a moment of contemplation.

“What do you mean?” Junmyeon says, head falling on its side.

“I’m not saying Baekhyun’s dumb or anything,” Yifan corrects himself, “I mean, he’s Valedictorian for a reason. It’s just—he thinks in hyperboles. But those hyperboles aren’t exactly exaggerated inside his head, you know? And he actually thinks plotting out graphs for his future does him any good—”

He’s rambling now, and Junmyeon cuts him off with a snort, a light slap on the shoulder stilling his vocal cords. 

“I don’t think he actually plots out graphs, Yifan.” Junmyeon says, “It’s just—he’s really adamant on future. Like how a baby gets all focused with his building blocks, except the baby’s 18-years-old with a full ride to Harvard.”

“You did not just compare Baekhyun to a baby.” Yifan guffaws, which makes Junmyeon laugh.

“Did not!” He says after catching his breath.

“Did too,” Yifan says, taunting. “You basically called him an overgrown toddler.”

“So maybe I did,” Junmyeon rolls his eyes, bringing out a hidden flask from his jeans pocket, “I’m a little tipsy, okay?”

“Oooh, straight vodka?” Yifan implores, the lull of some woman’s dreamy vocals tuned out by the liquid slosh, Junmyeon jostling the shiny flask in his hand.

“Probably.” Junmyeon takes another swig before tossing it over to Yifan, who catches it with one hand. He too takes a drink, a little more than Junmyeon since he can handle alcohol better, and shoves it in his own pocket.

“Hey!” Junmyeon yells, jumping up from his seat and lunging at Yifan, who catches him and hoists the flask up above his head, away from his prying hands.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Junmyeon chides, his face a red flush, burning like a flame in the dead of night. “Give it back to me right now.”

“No can do, Junmyeon oh Junmyeon,” Yifan says, giving him a cheeky grin, “We still have things to trash! Did you think I opened all these bags for nothing?”

Junmyeon huffs, a little wobbly when he pushes himself off of Yifan, looking around at the plastic bags that surround them. 

“They look like igloos.” He blurts out, amused.

“In what way?” Yifan asks, already hunkering down and picking up bottles, tossing them in nearby bags.

“Just looks like them,” Junmyeon shrugs, “They’re all perfectly round, like the base of igloos.”

“I’m gonna take that as some misguided compliment for my bag opening skills.” Yifan says.

Junmyeon joins Yifan down on the floor, both sharing a laugh when Junmyeon almost topples over, Yifan catching him with steady hands.

“Take for it what you will,” Junmyeon says, a drunken slur dancing round the smooth saxophone floating in the air, heavy. “I think you kick ass at bag opening.”


	2. lemon boy and me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hii enjoy <33 
> 
> // @wontonwriter on twitter ♥

_“there’s a degree of deception in silence.”_

_— Don Lemon_

𐐒𐐚

Junmyeon is scared. He’s scared of the podium, scared of the rows of seats that go on for miles, scared of the mortarboard on his head with the stupid tassel hanging off the centre and utterly petrified at the monstrosity on Yifan’s head, covering his skull like a blanket, tattered and worn out.

He has the audacity to ruffle it, dishevel it even more, and Junmyeon is tempted to give him some hand sanitiser, free of charge.

“D’you like it?” He asks, pearly smile and all, and Junmyeon falls like a leaf in Autumn, pushed off his stem by rattling branches.

He doesn’t _really_ fall, no. ‘ _You’re thinking in hyperboles_ ’, he thinks, slapping himself on the cheek, far away in the recesses of his mind.

Yifan is _blonde_. He’s yellow, a pale kind of yellow that resembles the sun when it burns out its halo, and he’s yellow and it’s confusing and so, so _petrifying_.

“You’re yellow?” Junmyeon says like it’s a question, not a statement.

“Well, yeah, no shit.” Yifan snorts, “But not yellow, blonde. It isn’t too yellow, right?” He asks, suddenly sounding very small. Junmyeon shakes his head, still half-stuck in a daze, trying to pull himself out of it.

Yifan smiles, thankful. “Good. I would’ve killed Chanyeol if it were.”

“Kill me for what?” A voice from behind asks, Chanyeol slinging a heavy arm around Yifan’s shoulders.

“Dude, the dye you bought me yesterday was a shade lighter than I wanted,” Yifan says, elbowing Chanyeol off him. “One shade lighter and you would’ve been six feet under by today.”

Junmyeon thinks its cruel how Yifan can make such jokes on graduation when Chanyeol isn’t wearing a robe like the two of them. Still, he keeps his mouth shut, afraid his reprimanding would just come out in confused half-slurs.

“I can’t believe it guys,” Chanyeol says, “Graduation. I never thought I’d see the day.”

He says it like he’s stuck under a nylon robe burning in the sun with the rest of them, not wearing a shirt with his letterman and a battered pair of jeans. He’s carrying a bag, and Junmyeon hears his work stuff clunk when he pulls both of them in for a hug.

“And I’m blonde,” Yifan says, sarcastic. “Today’s full of surprises, a two-for-one.”

Yifan puts his mortarboard back on, and Junmyeon breathes a sigh of relief — internally, of course.

It takes Junmyeon at least five re-adjustments on his seat to make himself comfortable. Kim Jongin seems a little annoyed by his constant stirring, his side-eyes obvious and a little disheartening, while Kim Minseok just stares off into nothing, thumbs fighting each other on his lap. Junmyeon is thankful for his last name, being able to get squashed in between two people who offset each other in almost everything, reactions and size in particular.

Down a few seats west, Kyungsoo sits with enough stoicism to send the most cheerful person into a fit of boredom. On his way pass, Junmyeon had gotten the feeling of eyes pricking at his back, stare as sharp as a needle. If Kyungsoo was looking at him now he couldn’t see, blocked by Jongin’s milk-laden body.

Why he was staring, Junmyeon didn’t know. For a split second, he wonders if Kyungsoo and Yifan had talked over the past week, if conversations were shared between their periods of silence. He thinks for a second more before shaking his head, snorting to no one in particular.

Baekhyun is up on stage, seated next to the principal. His face is restless like he can’t wait to get up on the podium, recite his speech, get his diploma and run out of Chuncheon, ready for the world. Even so, Junmyeon doesn’t fail to notice the slight bounce of his left leg, where most of his robe had bunched up on.

The principal addresses the school, spouting platitudes and trite statements, before inviting Baekhyun over to say his speech. Baekhyun stands, fixes his robe before walking over, long strides hidden in sheets of thick fabric.

There’s a rustling from the crowds, people _tsk-tsking_ and presumably rolling their eyes. Junmyeon wants to look behind him, to examine the sudden commotion, but knows that it’s probably Chanyeol with a camcorder.

Junmyeon smiles when Baekhyun smiles, something off in the distance making his best friend a little more at ease.

“Three years is a long time - 156 weeks of my life being a student at SM High had taught me a lot of things. There were some bad, some good,” Baekhyun starts, sentimental. “But all _learning experiences_. You don’t just come into high school expecting the best of times, you know?”

There’s a lilt in his voice that garners some laughs from the crowd, snickers from some of his peers that slither from row to row.

“We have been taught to recognize formulas, to recite passages from poems like it’s second-nature, to think about the world as we know it right here on these grounds,” He continues, looking out into the crowd. “All of this was to get us ready for the future. To open doors that’ll lead to good places, with roads that when trekked would make us feel like we have purpose.”

Baekhyun’s eyes sway from side to side, east to west and west to east, calculated.

“Nobody is good at everything but everyone is good at something,” He says, “The skills that we have brought into life and tended to at SM High will only continue to flourish from here.”

His conviction makes Junmyeon shiver. So much truth be held in Baekhyun’s words, too much Junmyeon can handle. He’s been looking for whatever for the past three years with nothing but a rusty lantern in his hand, swinging with the wind. There was no direction, only motes of dusts, illuminated in the dark by a flickering flame. He looks behind him to his right, finds an odd ball of yellow several rows down, and shivers some more.

“All of us have been through a lot of ups and downs,” Baekhyun says, standing up a little taller. “We’ve been through a lot, _together_. Let it be known that even outside of Chuncheon’s walls, where we’ll scatter out into different parts of the world, we’ll all be connected as one, as this year’s graduating class, as friends.” He smiles, and brings his hands down from the podium’s sloped top. “Whether you’ll be a scientist, a plumber, a teacher, I don’t care. I can’t wait to see every single one of you at the reunion party. Thank you.”

He leaves the podium then, rumbling applause following him back to his seat, where he looks content, happy with himself. Junmyeon wants to cry for him.

The principal lauds Baekhyun for his speech, theatrically wiping an invisible tear from his eye. Baekhyun doesn’t look amused, pointed glare separated from the rest of his face the same way emerald fields are from sapphire skies. This doesn’t stop him from smiling when he receives his diploma though, first of their graduating class, refractions of light bouncing off his pearly whites.

Junmyeon and the rest follow in a fine line, the stage a small dome and the stairway off a small chute, filtering them out into a world that didn’t look brighter than it did before, grass still the same green and seats still a little worn out. Junmyeon spots rust on one when he makes his way over to Yifan, trying to walk with purpose, strides intended.

His yellow hair is still freaking him out, but Junmyeon has enough will power to shove his stupefaction aside, his recently obtained status as a high school graduate obscuring the oddities of a yellow — blonde — Yifan. 

“You’re walking like you have a bottle stuck up your ass.” Yifan says when Junmyeon makes it to him, laughing. Junmyeon gives him an angry look, but allows himself to be engulfed by Yifan’s inviting arms.

“We’re supposed to be walking with purpose now,” Junmyeon says, “Our Valedictorian said so, not me.”

“Speaking of which, where is Baekhyun?” Yifan says, looking over Junmyeon, “I need to give him a hug for that speech.”

“He’s Valedictorian, Yifan,” Junmyeon says, “Chanyeol and his parents are too busy pampering him right now. Oh, and don’t forget about our fellow graduates. They’re all probably walking up to him with bottles up their asses as well.”

Yifan laughs, head thrown back like he wants to tell the clouds how funny his best friend’s joke was. Junmyeon watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down, movement fluid.

He’s swept away soon after, his collective family whisking him away from Yifan. When Junmyeon turns to mouth a small ‘ _sorry_ ’, Yifan already has his back turned towards him, facing his dad. He turns to face his own family, a trove of beaming smiles and crinkled eyes, with a smile of his own as well. 

His uncle bargains a game night at his house, his dad accepting without a second thought. He’ll supply the drinks while his dad will come with the boards, some of his wife’s famous kimchi and a competitive fire which his brother will only stoke, fanning the flames with continuous amusement. His mom warns him about not getting too riled up and his dad dismisses her worries, waving it off. Junmyeon facepalms.

After having taken enough photos to fill an entire gallery, Junmyeon silently steps away from his family circle, muttering a small excuse which his mom acknowledges with a faint nod. 

He potters around, clueless without an end goal. He gets invited for pictures with his friends, gives them hugs, sends them off on their merry way with heartfelt promises of meeting up again. Junmyeon will see them again at the party tonight, but they’ll all be too busy drinking and trying to forget about how old they’ve become, dancing around the future in futile attempts of staying glued to the present.

Junmyeon can’t blame them. University is intimidating, made all the more menacing with images that don’t match up to his dreams. His steps will carry less purpose, walking more of a poignant trudging, past trees planted in wrong places, to a building which would lack a great spire reaching for the sky. 

He had wanted to go to Penn State. He _really_ wanted to, already had envisioned flying with Baekhyun to America, coaxing his friend’s tears away with a plethora of books, separating when their plane descends on foreign ground. For some reason, he imagined crying after Baekhyun, in Harrisburg’s airport, where everything would hit him like a ton of bricks.

But there was no scholarship and loans were out of the question. He’ll suck it up, take in the bitterness before breathing it all out, repeating this until he feels numb to the concept of his dreams shattering, until the cacophony of glass flutes against jagged rocks dwindles into silent decibels, vanquished from his eardrums.

Junmyeon snips away at stems, reducing them to their roots.

_Snip. Snip. Snip._

𐐒𐐚

Kyungsoo gives him a box full of pastries on Kim Jongin’s front lawn, background noise a palette of jumbled notes and indistinguishable voices. The whole ordeal is weirder than it sounds.

“Um,” Junmyeon starts, unsure on where to go from here. “T-thanks, Kyungsoo,” He utters out poorly.

Kyungsoo’s eyes, owlish in size and nature, observe him like he was prey, looking for a crack in the fault line of his mind. Junmyeon isn’t sure if Kyungsoo knows how intimidating he can be, if he ever looks in the mirror and pries into his own soul. Junmyeon wonders what he’d find.

“It’s no problem, really,” Kyungsoo says, and Junmyeon doesn’t feel assured when he hears the extra ‘ _really_ ’ roll off of Kyungsoo’s tongue. “Just wanted to give you something. I’ve only realized now how little we’ve actually talked to each other.”

Junmyeon couldn’t disagree. Being with Kyungsoo had always felt like an obligation, a chore done for Yifan to keep him happy. He can’t bring himself to feel bad too, since he knows Kyungsoo’s always felt the same. Kyungsoo has never given him anything but a few words and nods — in the periphery of their time together, what would a box of pastries do?

“Hey, I know you’re probably gonna call me out for my bullshit, I get it.”

Junmyeon looks away, grip on textured cardboard tightening, a little shocked. His eyes dart between a flickering street lamp and two birds lounging on an electric line, waiting for Kyungsoo to say something.

“Well at least you didn’t automatically try and refute,” he finally says, sounding glad.

“I just…” Junmyeon responds, at a loss of words. “Why now? It’s been three years — at least. Why now?” His voice raises a little, and he swallows down the weird lump in his throat.

“I don’t know either honestly,” Kyungsoo sighs, hunkering down on the grass, hugging his knees close to his chest. “Just wanted to do it.”

“Since we’re being completely upfront with each other,” Junmyeon says, dropping his stare down on Kyungsoo’s head, a canvas of chocolate. “I think you’re lying.”

“Junmyeon.” Kyungsoo says, plain like the bread he makes that Junmyeon’s only ever had the pleasure of tasting twice.

Kyungsoo’s head rolls back to look up at him, like he was waiting for the right time to strike. Junmyeon looks away again, feigning nonchalance.

“Yeah, I’m lying,” He admits, “That box was for Yifan. It’s been in my fridge for the past week when I was thinking about things.”

Junmyeon wants to point an accusing finger at him, shout ‘ _I told you so_ ’ and throw the box in his face. But then again, the smells wafting out of the box’s slits were too tempting, delectable.

“Well why’d you give it to me?”

“Who was I supposed to give it to?” Kyungsoo says, “I don’t have any friends. People only ever really talk to me at my bake sales. I’m too boring to hold a proper conversation with.”

“ _But we aren’t friends_.” Junmyeon slips out, hand slapping over his mouth like it would take back what he’d said. It doesn’t, unfortunately.

“Huh,” Kyungsoo says, though he sounds a little sad. His head rolls back down to the ground, hands picking at some grass, one blade at a time. “Yeah. Guess we aren’t.”

Kyungsoo should’ve stood up, brush himself off and leave. Junmyeon would’ve turned and walked back inside the house, forgetting — or at least trying to — all about this, no words exchanged. But Kyungsoo doesn’t stop picking and the spot next to him looks comfortable enough, perks of Kim Jongin’s family being the richest in their suburb. Junmyeon feels like he owes it to him anyway, to at least try at a conversation.

It’s no surprise when Kyungsoo shuffles a little to the left, away from Junmyeon, when he sits down next to him. Junmyeon places the box in between them, undeterred by the slight movement.

“Did you like Yifan at all?” Junmyeon asks, casual. He opens the box, takes out a pastry and bites into it. Chocolate oozes into his mouth.

It takes a while for Kyungsoo to respond, who had begun to dig in himself. They take turns putting their hands in the box when they finish, Junmyeon’s never straying too far when he goes to take one.

“I did.” Kyungsoo answers, simple. Despite what Yifan had told him, the tone in Kyungsoo’s voice evokes sincerity, like he used that period of silence to muster up enough conviction to eradicate all his doubts. Junmyeon nods, biting into a croissant.

“I believe you,” Junmyeon says, licks powdered sugar off his top lip. “Yifan liked you too, you know.”

Junmyeon thinks about the times when Yifan would swoop down to randomly plant a kiss on Kyungsoo’s lips. He swoons as much as he cringes, imagines smooth currents and polished gears.

“Why’d you break up with him then?”

Junmyeon feels Kyungsoo’s eyes bore into the side of his face. He doesn’t look away from the street lamp, yellow glow illuminating dust.

“We’ll be separated, anyway. I thought it was time.”

Junmyeon wants to tell Kyungsoo how sad he made Yifan, how he’d sometimes miss a green light during their first drive around with Koko, Junmyeon knowing all his rambling was like white noise in the void of Yifan’s thoughts.

“Yifan’s blonde now,” he says instead. Kyungsoo looks away and Junmyeon slouches, heavy stare lifted from his shoulders.

“I saw, yeah. It looks weird on him.”

“More than weird. He looks like a lemon.”

Kyungsoo snorts, first one in this weird, tangible conversation.

“He’ll be a sweet lemon, then.”

This time, Junmyeon turns to face him. Kyungsoo returns his stare, eyes prying out his answer before he can say it aloud.

“Are you over Yifan?”

Kyungsoo looks up and purses his lips, thinking. Junmyeon knows he isn’t, but decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

“ _Junmyeon._ ” A voice, tumbled like clothes in a dryer, calls from afar. The two turn, finding Jongin swaying from side to side on the porch, drink sloshing in his hand. He stumbles down the steps, and Junmyeon is worried that he’ll fall and hit his head. He doesn’t, luckily enough.

Junmyeon stands, Kyungsoo following. The closer Jongin gets, the more passive he looks, lines on his tan face eased and mouth contorted into a lopsided grin. Junmyeon thinks it’s probably the alcohol coursing through his veins, since he looked ready to punch someone in the face at graduation.

“Jongin?” Junmyeon says, “What are you doing out here?”

Jongin stops in front of them, wobbling where he stands. He’s silent, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. Junmyeon feels a little uncomfortable, but realizes the close proximity was because Jongin was looking over his shoulder.

“I’ve seen you around before, but I don’t remember your name,” He sounds a little annoyed at himself, but shakes his head, small smile returning on his face. “I’m Jongin — _Kim_ Jongin.”

Junmyeon feels Kyungsoo behind him get a little smaller.

“Kyungsoo,” he says, curt.

“That’s… That’s a hot name,” Jongin lilts, and Kyungsoo’s probably blushing now, no alcohol in his system to blame. “Hey, are you—”

“What do you want, Jongin?” Junmyeon interjects, annoyed.

Jongin raises himself to full height, towering over the both of them. His eyebrows are furrowed, lips twitching.

‘ _Basketball does that to people_ ’, Junmyeon tells himself.

He sounds sober when he says, “Yifan wants you to come with him, pick up Chanyeol from work or something.”

It comes out all gruff though, and some of his words are misplaced. Junmyeon loosens up, tiptoes to look over Jongin’s shoulder.

“Yifan? Where is he?”

“At the back,” Jongin answers, lazy thumb thrown over his shoulder. “You guys take back out. Yifan parked shitty mustang there.” 

Junmyeon nods without a word, turns his head to find Kyungsoo about five metres behind him, only getting farther away. He takes this gesture as a goodbye and returns it with a slight wave.

Junmyeon trudges back into the house, taking an unwilling Jongin by the arm with him. Vague disapprovals get lost in the wind, Junmyeon too focused on lugging a body laden with milk to pay attention to it.

Junmyeon releases Jongin when he makes it to the foyer, heavy steps behind him rattling shoes splayed on hardwood on his way in. A few steps down the hall, the flickering centre of the party holds its reign on the neighbourhood, the clamour loud enough to piss of disgruntled parents three blocks over.

“What a cockblock.” Jongin grumbles, dropping down on an ottoman, his cup falling from his hand, its contents staining patterned cushion. Junmyeon wants to scold him but refrains from doing so, remembering the divide between living lavish and scraping by.

He leans on the door and watches Jongin slouch, heavy shoulders sullen.

“I thought you were straight.” Junmyeon says, loud enough so that his voice rises above the roar.

“Never said I was,” Jongin responds, picking up his now emptied cup, observing it in his hand like it was something sacred, an heirloom of some sort. “Just like whatever. As long as they’re cute.”

“Huh,” Junmyeon says, kicking at a shoe. “Never knew you were into guys.”

“You look a lot like Kyungsoo,” Jongin inquires, drunk. “You two brothers or something?”

Junmyeon tiptoes like Jongin’s words were spits of lava, molten droplets coalescing to form snakes, slithering through a labyrinth of shoes to burn his feet. He tiptoes till he can feel his head bump against a coat hanger attached to the door. 

“No,” Junmyeon says, and he thinks he says it a little too loud, Jongin’s gaze from the floor rising to meet his face. “We’re not brothers.”

“He looks too familiar to not remember though,” Jongin ponders, like Kyungsoo was some quadratic formula and not someone he’s seen multiple times before. “Isn’t he that guy who bakes a lot?”

 _‘He’s also Yifan’s now ex-boyfriend, if that rings a bell to you_. _’_

Junmyeon offers a nod and swallows down the statement bubbling up in his throat. Remnants of it linger on his tongue, salty like brine.

“He makes really good pastries,” He brings up, listening to the squeak of his shoe, scuffing it against hardwood, tense. 

“Well no shit, he’s a baker,” Jongin slurs, uncharacteristic giggle making his shoulders shake. “I think bakers are supposed to be good at baking, ‘Myeon.” 

And then it gets all quiet, Jongin’s gaze dropping on the floor, mumbling to himself, Junmyeon too busy listening to anything but the drunkard’s incoherent blather.

They sail in their silence, sound from all sides of the party their wave, rocking their conversation to God knows where. Jongin’s head tips to the side, eyelids fluttering for a second before they decide to shut, Jongin agreeing. Junmyeon pushes himself off of the door, grabbing someone’s jacket from the coat rack standing in the corner, laying it over Jongin. He snuggles into it, like leather was wool and the rancid smells of overly priced colognes were the homey scents of bread, fresh out the oven.

𐐒𐐚

Koko’s flaws shine even brighter under a street lamp, where motes of dust float around it, a perfect halo for a beat-up mustang. And yet, if Junmyeon were being honest, _she_ looks a little beautiful, rust stains a kaleidoscope of maroon, chipped paint on _her_ surface like galaxies blended in clouds of red.

Upon seeing Junmyeon come into view from the back gate, Yifan stands from Koko’s hood, smiling. Baekhyun is there as well, looking less happy. He tries for a smile anyway, but it’s queasy.

Junmyeon thinks he knows the reason for Baekhyun’s forlorn face, guesses it was the aftermath of Yifan telling him about Koko, Baekhyun responding with the expected despondency of, well, _Baekhyun_ , a Valedictorian carrying too much pride to be seen inside a car that looked like it’d been through two mass extinctions.

“Did Jongin have to drag you out here or was it the other way ‘round?” Yifan says, keychain spinning around his spindly finger.

“The latter,” Junmyeon responds, “I told you already, I don’t mind being around Coco. She’s a keeper.” He pets the mustang’s hood, little words of endearment slipping off his tongue. He feels a stare, gentle on his bed of hair, and smiles.

He doesn’t bring up Kyungsoo, just keeps on petting Koko’s hood like tough steel was a canvas of dog hair, since he thinks telling Yifan about the incident would make his gentle stare vanish. 

Baekhyun clears his throat and captures their attention with ease, stares knowing. “I just wanted to say, Yifan hasn’t had, uh… _Coco_ cleaned yet.” He announces, careful like he might offend Yifan.

Baekhyun’s statements were familiar, like the toll of a bell, easy on the ears when you’ve come to enjoy the sound. But Junmyeon knows, as much as he doesn’t want to, that a sound he can grow accustomed to can become muted, all within the timeframe of a short week. He tries to shrug this thought away.

Yifan puts an arm around Baekhyun’s shoulders, ruffles his hair. “I promised I’d get her cleaned up before the trip, didn’t I? Don’t worry your pretty little head.”

Baekhyun rolls his eyes, a hint of a smile twinged on his lips, pushing Yifan away before he can claim it as a win. “Can we go get Chanyeol now? He’s probably been waiting for the past half hour, I feel bad.” 

Junmyeon sits passenger side while Yifan takes the wheel. Baekhyun squirms at the back, a nosey Yifan half-jokingly poking his head out from the driver’s seat on occasion, concerns dripping with sarcasm vacuumed away by Baekhyun’s reassurances, which get louder and less genuine with each pester. Junmyeon lets them bicker, only interjecting to throw quips at Yifan’s inconsistent driving, too busy getting lost in the roads they swallow. 

Chanyeol’s second job consists of manning the counter at a 7/11, one located on the outskirts of their suburbia, where cement roads meet unkempt forest floors and street lamps kiss trees. Junmyeon had been in the forest before, knows all the winding trails and mystical streams, remembers the drone of moving water. All the calm that nature carries emanates from the forest, its periphery only a few blocks down, and Junmyeon finds himself running around trees, playing tag with his friends.

When they come back, he’ll organize a trip there. He’ll have a picnic with Yifan and Chanyeol — Baekhyun included like he wasn’t running off to America. They’ll all laugh, and Junmyeon will listen to Yifan and Baekhyun bicker like brothers, taking in the sound like it was an orchestra of instruments and not two guys arguing. He’ll make them play tag like they were a quartet of kids, maybe force them to accompany him on a trek up the mountains.

For better or for worse, Yifan pulls him out of his dreamscape. He’s abrupt about it and Junmyeon wants to yell at him, to tell him to go inside without him. His anger ebbs when he looks up to meet Yifan, his eyes worried and a little tired, if he were to look even closer.

“Are you good?” He asks, studying Junmyeon like he had glasses perched on his nose and a lab coat layered over his body, ironic as that sounds.

Junmyeon nods, listless. He pushes past Yifan to follow Baekhyun inside the 7/11, too drained for an interrogation.

Baekhyun’s already talking to Chanyeol by the time the doorbell chimes to signify his arrival. The sound is dingy and stale, but Junmyeon will take what it offers, being a ring from a bell nonetheless. Chanyeol beams and gives him a wave, arm rising high above his head. Junmyeon gives one back, barring the extra energy the giant always seemed to be supplied with.

The bell rings again when Junmyeon’s in between shelves, browsing through rows like he’ll actually put stuff on the counter and pay. Yifan comes into view, hands shoved down his pockets.

And maybe it’s because Junmyeon feels bad about giving him the cold shoulder that his perception shifts, the Yifan he sees now looking more tired than he did before, eyebags visible under the fluorescents, his smile a little sunken. On second thought, it might’ve just been because outside was dark and not bathed in light, but still, Junmyeon’s really worried, solicitous about his best friend, which is nothing new.

“Are _you_ good?” Junmyeon mimics Yifan’s question from outside, his only more forceful, like he won’t take a ‘ _yeah, I’m fine_ ’ for an answer. Yifan just shrugs.

Junmyeon gives him a look, expressive in a way that’s probing, reaching into his soul. But it’s all done for naught, his eyes being too small to do anything but look outwards, to stare longingly at the castle he wants to explore.

Yifan is all intentional gesticulating, easy-to-read movements making up the framework of his mind, stone blocks atop stone blocks. But there is never dullness, just pinpricks of detail on hard surface that Junmyeon can never pass off as mere coincidences, like the vines that slither out of the tower sometimes, sprouting from random places, growing like they want to get out, displace themselves from their confines between solid block, out from the tower and into Junmyeon’s arms, safe.

But it’s all wishful thinking, probably. Yifan looks away, scanning the shelves like they didn’t just have an optic joust. Junmyeon doesn’t budge, not given any invitation to pry, no elbow on the ribs or some other thing he can read as a green light.

Chanyeol doesn’t open plastic bags like Yifan. He’s clumsy and less calculated, but like a true gentleman, slips some freebies into Yifan’s bag when he rings him up, long finger pressed against his lips when he does so, like his manager might miraculously barge into the store and reprimand him. Baekhyun’s vexation was transient, and Junmyeon hears a lecture that splutters out into the void, a connection of lips shutting the Valedictorian up.

“Here,” Yifan tosses his keys to Chanyeol, who catches it with one hand. “Junmyeon and I are gonna walk to the park. Don’t wait up for us, I know how much you want to drink.” He says with a wink, emphasizing his point.

“Are you sure?” Baekhyun says, sceptical. “It’s pretty far away from here.”

“We’re better off walking to the forest, Yifan.” Junmyeon brings up, only half-joking. He doesn’t bother objecting the walk, not wanting to go back to the party.

Yifan rolls his eyes, waving their concerns away with a hand. “There’s another park not far from here, it won’t take too long.”

“Just call if you want to get picked up, yeah?” Chanyeol says, clapping Yifan on the back and hugging Junmyeon from behind the counter. Baekhyun’s too busy to turn around and his farewells have to vault over his shoulder, already immersed in some task Chanyeol could’ve done otherwise.

The doorbell chimes once more when Yifan opens the door for them both. From down the street, where cicadas sing and flowerbeds rustle with the stale summer-night breeze, Junmyeon swears he can still hear it, that final ring, the sound clear in his ears like an ocean painted in transparency.

𐐒𐐚

Yifan takes him to some secluded park, one so close to the forest that Junmyeon can practically feel its vibrant thrum ghost down his skin, leaves fluttering past his head with each step. It’s a little run down, but Junmyeon’s grown resigned to that particular state, already welcoming the rust lining the playground equipment. There’s a small basketball court, and Yifan’s already jogging up to the hoop before Junmyeon can look up from brushing some dirt off a bench, intent on sitting down.

“Check it out!” Yifan says, somehow holding a basketball in his hands, caged between his giant palms. “Some person left their ball here.”

Junmyeon lofts an eyebrow, uneasy. “Are you sure it’s safe to hold that? It might’ve been here for a while.”

Yifan gives him a face that conveys his indifference towards the dangers of hoarding a ball from unknown origins, and Junmyeon lets him off, knowing he can never truly stop Yifan once he has a ball in hand and a hoop in sight.

The ball’s metallic slap against cement comes in fleeting symphonies, slicing through the neighbourhood’s ambience. The street lamps protest Yifan’s existence, flickering to the beat of his movements. Junmyeon watches from the bench, feeling awkward even though they’re the only ones there, like he should be reading a book instead of watching Yifan, or scrolling through his phone, mindless.

But Yifan manoeuvres around the court like other people were actually there, like he had the capacity to run a marathon twice, 360-ing his way around ghosts and crossing the court in a meagre 6 strides, his legs no match for the faux playing ground he prowls on, and it’s too much of a view, six parts comedic and three parts riveting, to not look at.

“Why are you laughing at me?” Yifan asks, more of a half-scrutinization, not happy about Junmyeon’s scrunched up face.

“I’m not, it’s just—” He splutters, the back of his hand against his outstretched lips, “You’re — you look a little funny, Yifan.”

Yifan gives him a steely look, but it’s sculpted with a faulty chisel, and a quirk of his lips takes all the seriousness away from it. Not long after, he’s bounding up to Junmyeon with all the energy of a dog, and Junmyeon doesn’t resist or voice any objections when Yifan pulls him up by the arm, leading him to the small basketball court.

There are no game lines and cracks for every second step greet his light footfalls, but it’s still nice and Junmyeon feels sort of bouncy. He blames it on nostalgia, the sight of Yifan running up to him with a ball tucked between his waist and arm stoking a fire he’d been trying to put out.

“Have you decided on which university you’re going to?” Yifan asks, shooting from a distance he deemed as the three-pointer line. It lands into the hoop and makes its way back to Yifan in four bounces, Junmyeon trying and failing to intercept it on its second, arc too high for his arms to reach. 

“Not yet.” He huffs, more because he doesn’t want to talk about university and anything future-related, “Our trips in two days. Care to give me our itinerary now and not leave it up to suspense?”

“I would, but I left it in Koko.” Yifan says, and Junmyeon gives him an incredulous look, not sure if it was because of his carelessness or the realization of how weird it was, naming your car, and using it in a sentence that left little to the imagination.

Recovering quickly, he opts to stay serious by scuffing his toe against the floor. “It’s urgent, Yifan. I really wanna see so I can pack essentials beforehand.”

“Fine, fine.” Yifan says, like his previous sentiment wasn’t weird at all, “Five stops — Daegu, Busan, Gwangju, Incheon and Seoul.” He says, holding a finger up for every location specified, as if Junmyeon was four and needed it.

His hand stays up for another minute, smile foreboding. Silence slips them under a blanket, and it’s so suffocating Junmyeon actually yearns to hear that bell again, stale ring and all.

“Carry on, Yifan?” Junmyeon prods, “Please tell me you actually _did_ have things planned.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly say anything but a road trip.” Yifan admits, sheepish.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Junmyeon says, jaw dropping to the floor. Yifan follows, but only to tie up his shoelaces. “You mean to tell me that you announced a road trip that doesn’t even have a _guideline?_ ”

“There are guidelines!” Yifan retaliates, sitting down on the cement, “The locations, Myeon. They are our guideline!”

“Those are just locations, Yifan,” Junmyeon says, agitated. “A road trip without an itinerary is like a dog without its head. Barking with no sound, running around with no tail in mind!”

Yifan has the nerve to laugh at this, cover-up hand a useless attempt to hide his large frame shaking with mirth. Junmyeon wants to bop him on the head, but stops when he too imagines a dog without a head running around, searching for nothing since it can’t smell or see or hear, and cracks up.

Yifan looks up at him, a rare occurrence. “You’re laughing too, see?”

And maybe it’s from the angle, from the vantage point he barely gets, being able to look at Yifan from chin down rather than chin up, that his hair looks blonde and not yellow, like the dust that dripped off from the sun trickled onto his head and coaxed black into blonde, hazy but bright.

And Junmyeon realizes that no, Yifan’s hair wasn’t the sun post-halo, but rather the halo itself after departing from the sky, modicums of a star right there on his bed of hair, soft and a pinch tantalizing. Junmyeon’s hand stretches out to ruffle it.

“What’s with this sudden assault?” Yifan says, but leans into the touch, “I thought you hated my hair.” 

“I never hated it, Yifan,” Junmyeon responds, a white lie. “It was just. Time-of-day, you know? Oh, and it looked like a lemon under the sun too, if that makes any sense.”

Yifan laughs like it does, hand coming up to engulf Junmyeon’s forearm, holding onto it like an overhead railing inside a turbulent train carriage. Junmyeon doesn’t stop ruffling his hair, finding it endearing.

“I may have overexaggerated when I said I didn’t have any guidelines, because I did make one, just not on paper.” Yifan says, and Junmyeon hums at his confession, relieved.

“It’s not a _full_ itinerary. Just locations inside our destinations, perfect picture-taking places to make a collage out of.”

“But we at least have like, accommodation sorted and stuff, right?” Junmyeon asks, still a little weary.

Yifan gives him a lazy smile, eyes squinting a bit from the light over his head. “Yeah. Chanyeol actually planned this with me, you know? We’re camping in Busan, if the weathers okay.”

“Well which one out of us has a tent?” Junmyeon says, even if he knows none of them have gone camping. Distantly, he decides to force them on a camping trip in the forest when they come back, Baekhyun included.

Yifan confirms his doubts with a shrug, and ruffling plateaus to faint sifts, his fingers never fully ceasing.

“Baekhyun’s the richest out of all of us, so we’ll just have him buy one. Besides, he’s probably stowed away some cash if the need for a tent arises.”

Junmyeon doesn’t disagree, unable to find some oddity in Yifan’s already odd, if not a little crude, remark about Baekhyun. He can’t brush away the feeling that Yifan resents Baekhyun’s preciseness, that he secretly loathes the Valedictorian and all of his plans. He wonders, just for a fleeting moment, what Yifan would do if Baekhyun’s plans were presented to him on a table, materialised in A4, if he’d swipe them all away in defiance or wordlessly gather them up in a pile.

“Let’s talk about you, then.” Junmyeon says, ruffles ceasing when he sits down next to Yifan, shivering when his backside makes contact with the cold cement, “What are your plans?”

Yifan leans back, careless. The ball quivers tirelessly in between the V of his legs, rolling left to right. “I’ll work a job or two, get Chanyeol to recommend me to his managers. My dad’s fine with me not going to university, always has been, but I don’t want to feel useless.”

Yifan’s dad has been fine with a lot of things after his mom passed away. Junmyeon’s just thankful that Yifan didn’t take this blessing for granted and twisted it into a curse.

“What about basketball?” Junmyeon asks, leaning back too.

Yifan scoffs, light but a little condescending, like basketball didn’t need to be addressed, “I’ll still play it. Some of my basketball friends I know are staying back, Wooseok and Sehun, at least for a little while. And Chanyeol will still be here, of course.”

‘ _Your trophies too,_ ’ Junmyeon thinks, sees them assembled in a row atop Yifan’s shelf, his name engraved on the little golden tablets bolted onto the wooden plinths the trophies stand on.

How long would it take for them to rust? Junmyeon gets scared, stupidly thinks that Yifan would somehow quicken the process, like his nostalgic presence would sap away at their life forces with each glance off their pristine surfaces, like a phantom vampire. 

“I better see new trophies on your shelf every time I come visit,” Junmyeon says, shaky enough to warrant a stare from Yifan, not as soft on his bed of hair like earlier. “Maybe there’s small leagues here post-high school, Yifan. I’ll ask my dad about it, he’ll probably know some—”

Before he can say anything else, Yifan slings an arm around him and pulls him close to his side, ruffling his hair with a hand before dropping it on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about me. We should be looking forward to the trip, yeah?”

‘ _But the trips only seven days,_ ’ Junmyeon wants to say, but just rests his head on Yifan’s shoulder, suddenly feeling exhausted. 

Junmyeon curses himself for thinking about Yifan’s trophies, how his mind meandered into territory he should really mark as ‘ _DO NOT PASS_ ’, even if the signs will only really be there to serve as warnings, not functional blockades.

He counts the time it takes for one of them to cave and break the silence. He gives up before Yifan finally clears his throat and stands, offers of ice cream pulling him up with him. Their steps are merciless hammers, synced and destructive, against the rigid atmosphere, their re-surging laughs the final blow against those faulty walls that boxed them in something suffocating, indescribable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and feedback always appreciated ♥

**Author's Note:**

> leave a kudos if you enjoyed, feedback always appreciated <33


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